


A Puro Dolor

by Crack_Alchemist



Series: Les Basiers [6]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 15:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3654852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crack_Alchemist/pseuds/Crack_Alchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Was it raining outside?</p><p>Prompt Word: Cry</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Puro Dolor

 

Through the pain that was more like a sound than a feeling, he heard it.  Damp and clinging, it was a howling that overtook even the sound of crackling flames behind him.

There were wounds all over his body, one that took over the old ones left from years gone by and claimed a psychotic supremacy that made him sick.  Each individual laceration had a personality all its own.  The one in his side was a vindictive fuck, turning its screws tighter, trying to make him ignore the one in his shoulder, where Bradley had impaled him with that blasted sword.  But that wasn't the worst.  That worst wound was a slavish thing, loudest of them all, underlying the whole chorus of pain with a wild descant, screeching and wailing.

He tasted vomit in the back of his throat and relished the flavor, because it told him he was still alive.

That screeching and wailing wasn’t the wound in his shoulder, nor the one in his side.  It was something... else.  

There was also a weight on top of him, pushing him into the ground, stretching his skin and causing all of his wounds to clamor for even more attention.

And was it raining outside?  Because his neck was wet, warm and wet and that sound was right beside his ear now, blasting his eardrums like thunder.    Nothing could drown out that _sound_.  He could even imagine that his ears were bleeding from it.   He couldn’t moan to protest, because the smoke had taken his voice, but he tried to open his eyes.

And _that_ wound was hot, blazing hot, and why couldn’t he open his eye and what the hell was that sound in his ear, drowning out all of his common sense.

 _”Roy Mustang!”_  It belonged to an actual voice, a low contralto, soggy and sodden in a way he’d never heard before.

The way she said his name was the same.  It was like hearing your mother call your name from miles away.  You always knew who it was, just by the cant of her voice, the way she formed the first syllable of his last name, the way his first name sounded unfamiliar on her lips.

He moved.  At least he thought he’d moved, because the sound suddenly choked off and the weight left him, and hand pushed and pulled and managed to get him on his back.

His right eye was blurry with blood and smoke and pain.  His left eye... it was heavy there.  And black.  Everything on that side was black and heavy and–,

“Lieu-Lieutenant...”

He heard and odd hiccupping sound and a snuffle.  Then a watery, “S-Sir?”

“Stop crying.  It hurts.”

-       _A Puro Dolor = The Purest Pain_


End file.
